Reader of the Past
by iamhopeless.com
Summary: One-shot. John had always had a strange ability, and at some point, Sherlock was bound to find out.


**Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

 **Trigger-warning:** the story has descriptions of child abuse - if you're sensible to this, please don't read or skip these parts.

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The world had been full of colors and shapes since he was a child. Things no one would see, but him. Things that were true, that were vague, sharp, and harmful at the same time. He learned how to hide these flashes of clarity, because when he didn't, people got mad. And madness hurt, with blows and shouts and sticks and stones. He knew so much, but never told. Sometimes, he acted on it, but never openly. Always behind the scenes. Always a shadow on the corner of someone's life.

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John Watson didn't expect to live in London again. He had enlisted in hopes to make a military career, and in case war didn't take him by that time, he would have retired in a small cottage by a seaside. That was a nice dream to have when you were drowning in blood of your patients under the unforgiving sun. The bullet in his shoulder burst this bubble. It dulled his perceptions, or maybe it was the rain, and he merely dragged himself through days, feeling like he was simply a still and faded sepia shape on an old photograph.

Color exploded into his life without warning ("PINK!"), and he was running behind a madman, laughing, fighting, breathing. He grasped this miraculous straw and hang onto it, wondering when his secret would be out and the sky fall on his head.

Because John Watson was an anomaly, something Sherlock's scientific mind wouldn't accept. He was a psychometrer, a reader of the past.

His talent was usually dormant, he learned to repress it over the years, but in his younger years he could barely make a difference between the past and the present. Every little thing that touched his skin, or even places that had witnessed something strong (happy, horrific, beautiful), would throw images in his head, making him stop and babble about them. It never ended well. Till his adulthood, he covered as much of his skin as possible to avoid an unexpected vision. The only exception he allowed himself was medical diagnostic. Nothing could top an exact knowledge of what was wrong with his patient and how it got to this point.

Living with Sherlock, accompanying him on cases, was a temptation. He wanted to read the crime scene, to speed it up, to point out what was wrong. But then, he was quite sure Mycroft would come to lock him up in a research facility. He didn't want to be alone again. So he shut up, watching the consulting detective weave his magic, seeing things no one could and throwing them to the world to see, in that confident and regal way John could never hope to imitate.

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It came crushing down one night, when they were sprinting through the city after a high-profile thief. John bumped into someone, catching the passerby with both hands, shouting out an apology and running off in a second, before a vision hit him hard. He fell on his knees, winded. In the distance, Sherlock was tackling their thief, but he couldn't care less at the moment. Because images of a boy, a small frightened boy cowering in a closet, bruises on his arms, ankles, neck, tear-stained cheeks, waltzed behind his eyelids, with strings of angry insults thrown at the kid, and an apartment number swimming in and out of focus.

The man he just ran into was severely abusing his son. He could feel the rage seeping through the images, a constant denial and anger, so red it clouded every other instinct.

No way in hell he was letting it be.

A police car, all sirens out, screeched to a halt not far away, officers pooling out to officially take the thief in custody. John was already on his feet, eyes searching for the man in the crowd. He caught a glimpse of the rather distinctive worn blue jacket making its way away from the commotion. Not quite running, the ex-soldier started making his way after the abuser, forgetting his flatmate, the police, the chase.

Thankfully, the man was too caught up in his own hell to notice the tail. He led John to an unassuming apartment building. Unwilling to show his hand yet (perhaps the boy wasn't there), he waited for his target to enter the building and then five minutes. Walking straight to the door, John placed his bare hand on the lock-pad and closed his eyes in concentration, trying to plunge directly to the information he needed.

Humming softly to ground himself back to the present, he typed the code. The heavy door clicked.

The apartment he was looking for was on the third floor. John climbed the stairs without haste, even if his heart trumped a frantic staccato against his ribs. He stopped at the door, listening to any sound of trouble. It was silent. But it didn't mean that the kid was alright. The boy's fear and pain had been so potent, that they imprinted on the walls, on his father's clothes, skin. They screamed for help, and by pure chance John was able to hear them. Pressing his hand over the handle, John caught a glimpse of the twisted face of the monster who just came home.

With a sinking heart, he realized that him bumping into the deranged man fueled the rage. Now, how to get in? How to help?

"John?" Sherlock's voice sounded surprised, concerned and slightly suspicious. And it shouldn't have been there at all.

John whirled around to face a looming figure of his detective friend in the hallway, question marks dancing in silver eyes. The panic made him stagger, and he caught himself against the wall. The touch sent his senses in overdrive, because the shields were lowered, too long, too much, and there was a constant flow of past images from the old wall, hours, months, years of existence spilling into his head by flashes.

"John?!" The voice was urgent now, loud, calling. Snapping out of the information torrent, John opened his eyes (when did he close them?), hand falling back to the safe place against his thigh. Sherlock came closer, more worried than curious now. There was no way out of this.

"Sherlock, I…" he started to explain, to lie, still hoping to avoid the reveal and the inevitable loss that would follow. Just then a muffled roar of rage shook the door.

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Sherlock tackled the thief to the ground, rolling easily with the fall while his target was left winded. He was surprised however to not see his personal soldier follow-up the tackle with a punch and a click of handcuffs. John couldn't have been that far behind, he heard him turn the last corner only 4.8 seconds after himself. The thief steered, moaning in pain, and Sherlock was onto him like a bird of prey. Standing up after having single-handedly incapacitated the suspect, Holmes looked around, expecting the usual praise and nagging about being careful and rushing head first into danger. The crowd was staring uneasily at him, murmuring. John was not there.

The detective frowned. What could have delayed his blogger that much? A police car stopped at his level and an irritated Donovan emerged. "You could have waited!" she screeched in his face.

"Whatever" he answered absently, scanning the street for any sign of John. Onlookers, dull, dull, dull, affair, dull… There. Despite the general attention being focused on their little cops-and-robbers' drama, a mop of blond hair, barely visible due to the man's small stature, was moving the other way. John was leaving him just after the chase, didn't even finish the chase with him. What was going on?

Without thinking, he threw another sharp comment at Donovan, and started off after his fleeing flatmate.

Ramifications of John's unexpected defection were multiple and worrying. From betrayal, secret service to Mycroft or Moriarty, medical emergency or a PTSD episode, the only thing all theories had in common was that **this** wasn't planned. There were no signs to indicate that John was to abandon him in the middle of a potentially dangerous case.

Sherlock followed Watson in the distance, noting after a while that John himself was following someone. He was doing a passable attempt at inconspicuous, but the set of his shoulders betrayed the underlying tension. The mutual tailing lasted a good four blocks before John stopped at the corner, eyes intent on a plain-looking man (lower middle class, recently divorced, administration clerk, recently fired, high blood pressure) who entered an apartment building. They waited, John with growing impatience judging by the steady rhythm his foot was tapping on the ground, and around the other corner Sherlock was standing in utter confusion. There was no apparent reason for John to let everything go to follow a jobless clerk. No reason at all **he** could see, and Sherlock Holmes saw everything.

He was pulled from his musings by John finally walking up to the door. Was he about to use one of Sherlock's own "trick-the-neighbor" technics? But instead, the doctor just put his hand on the lock pad. From the distance, Sherlock couldn't see what he was doing, but it appeared to be nothing at all, before callused fingers flew over the pad to flawlessly enter the key. A six-digits password.

That was… unexpected, to say the least. Even on his good days, Sherlock would hesitate before entering such a long string of numbers. First four would be obvious, but the last ones? It could be pure luck. But John wasn't known to rely on such flimsy concepts. He knew exactly what the key was, and he didn't know it before standing at the door.

It was wrong, wrong, wrong.

His thoughts were jumbled, a burning sense of betrayal (bitter reminder of the Pool) battling against gnawing worry (nightmares and scars weren't the only thing John brought back from Afghanistan) and everlasting curiosity (a case, a case, so close to home, so personal, a **mystery!** ). It didn't prevent him from cracking the lock, even if it took him inexcusably longer than John (10.2 seconds longer), or going upstairs though.

His flatmate was stone still in front of a random door on the third floor, eyes closed in concentration and hand clenched on the handle. Home breaking? Surely not. "John?" he called.

Perhaps, not the best decision he ever made. The ex-soldier's eyes snapped open and wide, and he turned towards Sherlock so fast he lost his balance. The moment of gut-wrenching panic on John's so expressive face made Sherlock's inexistent heart sink. Those were not the eyes of someone caught doing something he shouldn't have, not guilty eyes, not at all. This was the look of someone whose world just started to crumble.

But in a second, blue eyes closed again, in pain. Why? What was wrong? Taking two long strides to reach his friend's side, Sherlock noted the sweaty brow, and the nervous twitch of the head, as if trying to look away from something. "John?!"

Watson looked up at him, like a dear in headlights, strange pain bleeding out of him as quick as it came. He looked lost, and terrified. Sherlock frowned in confusion. He didn't like to not understand. Licking his dry lips, John started hesitantly: "Sherlock, I…"

An ungodly shriek of rage from the flat interrupted him. Suddenly, the indecision and fear were gone, tucked safely away for later perusal, and Captain John Watson was standing tall, sharp gaze switching from the door to Sherlock. "Can you open it fast?" _faster than me kicking it down_ went unsaid.

A kid's shrill scream pierced through walls and was cut abruptly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yes" he nodded and set up to work. 5.9 seconds later, the simple lock clicked.

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There was no time to explain or descend in self-pity for John. Luckily, Holmes shared his beliefs on child abusers, and worked fast on the door. Slurred insults, broken sobs and sickening thumps of flesh against flesh escaped from the wretched place. Without a word, John marched inside. The flat was a dump. But he had other things to worry about.

"You little nasty bugger!" roared a male from the kitchen, while a wavering voice sobbed, pleading "Daddy, daddy, please, I'm sorry…"

The ex-soldier was at the threshold in a blink, in time to see the red-faced man lift his fist over a small boy held against the wall by the throat. Another blink, and the man was bent in two, crying out in pain, his shoulder dislocated, and the kid fell in a heap to the ground, wailing in terror.

"Who the hell are you?!" shouted the abuser, trying to appear menacing while cradling his arm.

"Police" John responded mildly, coking his head to the side in a mockery of politeness. He could feel his insides burn with fury, but he wouldn't fall to the level of the animal in front of him. Said individual's eyes widened in fear, but his brain was obviously too small to take rational decisions. With another unintelligible roar, the man launched himself at John, apparently thinking that taking out the supposed policeman would take care of his problems.

There was a warning shout from Sherlock, who couldn't be of much help in the small space of the crumpled kitchen. Not that his help was needed. John easily stepped aside, letting the attacked painfully lose his momentum against a counter, then reached out and pulled the wounded arm behind the man's back in a deadlock. It had the merit to cause a very intense pain (he knew it first-hand), enough to make the lump of a man pass out from it. He let him fall on the floor, not caring about the potential damage to the head. The idiot didn't use it much anyway.

Sherlock exhaled a surprised breath, tinted with hidden awe. It wasn't often that John displayed the ruthless fighter he had been on infamous bad days. But it was the distressed choked sobs from the boy that drew John's attention. He kneeled beside the kid, features softening to his usual concerned face. "It's alright now, buddy. I'm a doctor. Where does it hurt?" Wide grey eyes stared back at him in fear, full of tears. Bruises were blooming all over the small body, so thin under the dirty shirt he was wearing.

Wanting a better look at the bruised neck, John tried to gently lift the boy's chin, but the kid violently jerked and scurried away. "Sorry, sorry, sorry!" he cried, trembling.

Fury reeled its fiery head inside his chest, and his hands clenched, ready to break. The sound of a glass shattering on the floor snapped him out of it. Sherlock was looming over the fallen abuser, examining his hand with cold disinterest. "Oops. It slipped" he drawled, nodding at shards now littering the floor.

"Pity, that" John muttered, eyes skimming dispassionately over the small cuts the man would sport at his awakening. "Do you mind making the calls?" The tall man huffed instead of confirming and pulled out his phone. John turned his attention back to the child.

"I won't hurt you, buddy" he said gently, leaving his hands down. The boy stared at him, trying to keep his sobs quiet and failing. "What's your name then?"

"Ian" came the soft answer.

"Ian, that's a great name. My name is John. I'm a doctor, Ian. Can you show me where you're hurt?"

The boy shook his head vigorously, while curling even more on himself. "You hurt daddy."

And that was the tragedy of the situation. Despite the violence, Ian loved his father. John's heart broke at the accusing glare. There was no good answer to this. "I know. I'm sorry you had to see this, Ian, but not sorry for doing it. He had to be stopped."

Ian shook his head again, denial clear as day. "I was bad. I made mummy leave."

"You didn't. Your father was wrong for telling you that." Accusation and distrust were still dominant in the boy's eyes, but a small flicker of hope passed there. "Come on, let me see that bruise, kiddo." Slowly, Ian untangled his arms around his knees and let John examine him.

As suspected, the kid was badly beaten, but luckily no bones were broken. Letting his insight sweep over the small body, John identified bruised ribs and liver that needed treatment, but no other internal organs were damaged, and thankfully there was no internal bleeding. They'd have to get it checked by official methods, but at least he was personally reassured that the boy would survive the ride to the hospital. The doctor smiled softly his small patient, who eyed the proceedings with a mix of curiosity and fear. "You're going to heal."

He dropped his hand from the bruise on the kid's neck, brushing against the thin golden chain that hung around it. The image of a grey-eyed woman sprung into his mind. She looked jumpy, panicked even. "I'll come back" she said, clasping the golden chain on her son. "I promise, I'll get you back." The scene faded as quickly as it came, and John sighed imperceptibly. "We're going to find your mum too. She'd want you to be healthy."

"Really?" That was definitely hope in Ian's voice now.

"Promise."

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The boy was whisked away by the ambulance. Another one took away his father, accompanied by a constable. Sherlock and John were left on the curb in uncomfortable silence. "Baker Street?" the detective finally suggested, almost uncertainly.

"Yeah, sounds great." John was panicking inside, but it didn't transpire to his voice.

The silence returned during the cab ride. Sherlock stole glances at his blogger, who steeled his face into a blank mask. From his limited (but expanding) knowledge of social interactions, he assessed that what they did tonight qualified as Good. He could understand and easily forgive John for leaving him during the chase to go stop a child abuser. But there was just one thing bothering Sherlock to no end. _How did he know?_ There was no outward indication at all about the man's crime. If Sherlock didn't see it, how did John find out? Judging by the doctor's reaction, the explanation was A Bit Not Good. Or at least John was convinced that Sherlock would take it badly.

Well, good thing he never tired of surprising John.

So, here they sat across from each other in their living room, cups of steaming tea cooling at their sides. John was openly nervous now, hands fidgeting with the hem of his jumper and gaze darting to everything in the room but his flatmate. Sherlock watched him for a few minutes, but when the explanation clearly wasn't forthcoming, he decided to cut to the chase: "How did you know?"

Watson startled, eyes widening slightly and finally focusing on the detective. "Know what?" he tried weakly.

"Don't play dumb, John. You followed the man. You noticed something that I didn't, even at close inspection. What was it?" His voice was sharper than intended, but he had always hated being left out. The misery that painted on John's face made him reconsider the approach. "John, what was it? You can tell me." _Right?_

John briefly closed his eyes in response, and seemed to resign himself to something. "Is the flat bugged?"

Put out by the unexpected question, Sherlock nodded slowly. "No, I cleaned yesterday." Cleaning usually involved a complete sweep for bugs and thorough use of acid and fire.

"Great…" Blue eyes stared at him defiantly now. "Do you believe in psychics?"

There was a moment of stunned silence, then… "Do you expect me to believe that some ghost informed you of the situation?" Whatever the truth was, Sherlock felt insulted that his friend thought such an obvious lie would get him off the hook.

"Not exactly" John sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Not that type of psychic. I think the right term is psychometry."

Latin dictionary extracts flashed through the detective's mind. "Reading of souls? Seriously?"

John's frown indicated that the conversation was going exactly as he feared. "Not souls. More like… strong impressions on objects. What they witnessed."

"You can read the past of objects?" Sherlock summarized, leaning forward with a scowl on his face. That was getting ridiculous.

"Yes… yeah, I can." They stared at each other in bewilderment, Sherlock from the news, John from having finally voiced his secret. But hearing wasn't believing. John eyed the flat, looking for something he could read, something he shouldn't know. His gaze landed on the infamous skull, perched proudly on the fireplace. "Let me show you" he said, hoisting himself up. Under Sherlock's intense scrutiny, he cupped the cranium in his left hand, took a deep breath and plunged.

Several scenes from their lives on Baker Street flashed in quick succession, then the face of a much younger Sherlock grinning slightly at his new possession. His left cheek sported a fresh scratch, probably from a tree branch. Behind him, an older man looked relieved about getting rid of the skull. Further down the timeline, but not too far away, a shadowy figure was bashing someone's head with a poker. It was dark, but the violence of the scene clang to the object in his hands. Onward, onward, years, voices, colors, and years, and decades, and here was a man in yellowed clothes handing out the skull to a woman whose style could only be described as "batty", with shawls, beads and dried flowers in her graying hair. "Here's yar husband, Missus Jefferson."

Pulling himself away from the somewhat disturbing image, John turned back to his skeptical friend, skull still held tightly in his hands. "You got this skull from a case, about three years before we met. The owner had been murdered, someone bashed his head in with a poker, and the heir believed the skull had a curse on it. When you solved the case, he gave it to you. You had a scratch on your face" - he ran two fingers over his own cheek to demonstrate – "when you first took it. The skull is a genuine thing. Belonged to a certain Mr Jefferson. His wife made it extracted after his death in the early XIX century. Not sure she was entirely sane at the time."

Gray eyes narrowed, calculating and cold. It was an alien feeling. "You could have researched this" Sherlock finally said.

"And invented Mrs Jefferson who wanted her husband's skull at her nightstand?"

"Too long ago, there is no way to prove **or** disprove it."

"Fine. Then test me yourself." The detective cocked his head in thought, then sprang up and fished out a letter from the enormous stack of paper on their dinner table.

His baritone rang cold with imperious notes. "You haven't read it. I'd have noticed. Tell me who wrote this letter."

John arched an eyebrow, a move he actually learned from Sherlock, and took the paper without looking. The first thing that came to him was a hand. Long delicate fingers, skin slightly wrinkled by age. A silver bracelet with a faded monogram was adorning the wrist. A styled "V", perhaps? The hand glided over the paper, drawing in pretty cursive foreign words, that looked like French. The owner of the hand was female, in her seventies, white hair held in a tight bun. She was smiling softly while writing, lively gray eyes sparkling with fondness. She was dressed rather lightly, it seemed that the day was warm, and sunlight poured from the open window at her left. Light blue curtains fluttered in the breeze.

Handing back the letter, John described what he saw, gaze not straying from Sherlock. He saw his friend's eyes widen in recognition, then mulish denial settle in. "If you don't believe me now, then I'll just pack my things" he concluded with stubbornness equal only to Holmes's own.

Sherlock looked panicked for a second at the ultimatum. "No." He dropped the letter back to the table. "It is highly improbable, but there is no other explanation for you describing Aunt Marie's bracelet in such detail."

"You have French relatives?" John asked, side-tracked.

"On my mother's side, yes. How is this working then?"

Pulling himself together, John simply shrugged, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. "By touch, mostly. I concentrate on the object or the person I hold and it shows me his story in reverse, from the most recent moment to the oldest, unless I break contact. Usually, only strong moments, or impressions, are discernable clearly."

"Is that what happened with the abuser?"

"Yes. Violence leaves a strong imprint on things, and I ran into the guy on full speed. The image practically punched me in the gut."

"But it doesn't happen often" Sherlock drawled.

It wasn't a question, but John felt compelled to reply. "Usually, I repress it. But some things are strong enough to get past my blocks. Like Ian's pain, it was all over his father, screaming for someone to see it."

"You didn't use it on cases. Why?" The voice neutral, clinical, simply collecting data. It made John twitch.

"Aside from the fact that strolling onto the crime scene and describing the killer **and** the modus operandi thanks to a supposed magic trick would have been suspicious as hell?" Watson snorted in dark amusement. "Mainly because I never willfully used it other than for medical diagnostic. And honestly, there was no need for me to, with you on the job."

The underhanded compliment made Sherlock stop the staring down contest. His features softened imperceptibly, uncertainty now winning over. "Were you going to tell me?"

John switched into parade rest, uneasy. "I knew it would come out sooner or later."

Sherlock looked hurt for a moment, then his eyes narrowed again. "You thought I'd kick you out. Really, John." His voice was gently chiding. It made them both smile a little.

"The worst case scenario would be your brother shipping me to some secret research lab" the doctor said nonchalantly, sitting down again, with the detective following suite.

"He won't." The finality in these words sounded like an oath.

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"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't. No. SHERLOCK!"

His head was spinning, from the shock and from the collision with the bicycle, but he stumbled through the crowd forming around his friend. "Let me through, please… he's my friend, please, he's my friend…" Red, black, crimson blood soaking unkempt dark locks. John reached out to take the fallen man's pulse, and images hit him. Dazed, he fell back, trying to digest what just happened. He tried to stand, but his legs gave out. "Sherlock. Oh God …"

John didn't see how Sherlock's body was wheeled away. All he could think about was Moriarty's corpse lying on the roof with its brains gone, and the small note Sherlock burned just before their call. "Not dead. Meet me at Northolt airfield tonight. Can be dangerous."

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The small airfield was scarcely lit, just enough to allow planes to take off and land. The black car screeched to a halt in front of the private jet, and two tall men emerged from it. "You'll find everything necessary for disguise in your first drop point" Mycroft reminded his brother, managing to look utterly bored and very concerned at the same time. "Don't forget to destroy your previous identification cards."

"I'll be fine, Mycroft" Sherlock snapped, his eyes roaming through the surrounding darkness. A shadow moved towards them, and the younger Holmes grinned manically. "He'll make sure of it."

"He?!"

"So, where are we going then?" John Watson inquired mildly, stepping out of shadows, a duffel bag in his hand. A bandaid had been applied to his forehead, consequence of the bicycle sending him to the ground earlier. Otherwise, he looked rather fine.

"Dr Watson?" Mycroft was truly stunned. Sherlock grinned even more.

"China, John. You'll brush up your mandarin during the flight."

"I'd rather catch up on sleep, if it's the same to you."

The light bickering was interrupted by the older Holmes almost howling at them: "What is the meaning of this?!" He was met with twin raised eyebrows.

A sort of silent communication passed between the two men, then John stated coldly: "I'm coming with him. It is not negotiable."

"The whole operation relies on…" Mycroft started to sputter indignantly.

"…on me" Sherlock finished for him. "And I'd be lost without my blogger. He's coming."

Without further explanations, the pair marched towards the jet, leaving the governmental official in a state bordering hysteria. "Next time, you should just punch him" Sherlock whispered to his companion, who responded with a feral smile that promised hell to anyone standing in their way: "I just might."

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 **A/N:** And that's it. I didn't really feel like expanding on this plot. The idea was inspired by Psychometrer Eiji manga, if any of you are familiar with it.

Oh, and in original ACD work, Sherlock was a nephew to a French artist Vernet, so that's where Aunt Marie and her bracelet come from, if you were wondering ^^


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